Four Unlikely Friends
by NightHunterDeath
Summary: Urged on from glimpses of flickering lights and truth not known to history, four friends are forced to face a past they ran from in another life. To learn that your soul is threaten, your key to this world and your friends in danger, one starts to look deeper than the others might. Founders Reincarnated
1. Prologue: The Start of Four

**Four Unlikely Friends**

 **Summary:** _Urged on from glimpses of flickering lights and truth not known to history, four friends are forced to face a past they ran from in another life. To learn that your soul is threaten, your key to this world and your friends in danger, one starts to look deeper than the others might._

* * *

 **"Prologue: The Start of Four"**

In the times of witch hunts and Pagan religion ruled the land, the ordinary people which made up the world feared what they did not know. Ignorance bred misunderstandings, and misunderstandings bred hatred so foul that it lasted long after the families that felt it was gone from this world.

The word _magic_ was only spoken in whispers, and never in public. The people of ole were fearful of their neighbors, and sometimes even their own kin. It was not surprising when the townsfolk started to cry out for bloodshed. Nor was it surprising that only one misdeed – even if simply being at the wrong place and time – led one to their death. It did not matter to these creatures that it was their own brood that they were burning, did not matter if they were innocent or to ask what they really were. It only took one word for someone to be convicted of witchcraft and be punished for their crimes.

Life would never be easy, the magical folks of the world had decided long ago, but that did not mean they wouldn't fight. Magic was an open secret for the world, and as long as it was in their veins people would continue to worship it. Living without it was near impossible if they didn't want to go insane, or hurt someone around them. No, much like the people around them, they had no choice in the matter when it came to their abilities.

It was a millennium ago that our great heroes were born to this world, and it was many centuries ago that spoke of the horrors they faced in life. But to understand this horrible story, the one very few know of, you must understand where it all began. Their tale was not happy, nor was it kind. In fact until their last breath they were tortured by the way the world worked, and had only hoped that when they finally greeted the great deity that was Death, they would finally be rid of their pain. At least, that's what they had prayed to their chosen gods for.

Fate was never kind to her chosen ones, and you would never be reading this story if their spirits had stayed beyond the Veil.

And so begins our sad, sad little tale that started with four, and ended with three.

* * *

A sound so hollow passed through the worn down farm house, blood soaking the hay that was under a body of a young woman, no older than fourteen. She wasn't a beauty – not by the high expectations of noble life, in the very least – but she did have a certain charm about her. Tan skin of the Caribbean covered her limbs, and blonde hair the color of sunlight – her eyes very much the dull color of the deep sea in which she had once inhabited.

She had been sold to a wealthy man in his late forties when she was eight, caught in attempt to steal food for herself and her ill-fated mother. She was taken from the sea and brought to Shropshire of the isles of Britanniae where her owner now awaited her. It did not take long for the older male to trap her in a corner and steal her maidenhood from her. In the years that passed she was known to the other slaves and servants of the lord as the whore that willingly opened her legs to him whenever he commanded. It did not matter if she did not have a choice, could not fight back – and if she did she could very well be killed on the spot.

It was when she was thirteen, after a year of waking as a woman and no longer a girl, that she realized she was pregnant with that monster's child. Everything in her mind and body was telling her to kill it, to not let the lord know for then surely he would murder them both. And yet… as she set her hand against her still flat stomach, she couldn't bear the thought of losing the little seed within her to the man that forced this upon them.

After six years of imprisonment to the horrid man, she had gained a minimal of his trust. And so when she slipped a touch of _Arum maculatum_ to his nightly drink after a session of 'love making,' it was no surprised that he took it before he opened his bed to her. In order for the poison not to be noticed until it was too late, and no one would come to his rescue as he always had his servants far away from his chambers when he decided to take her – had decided long ago that her screams, moans, silky skin, wild hair, and crystal eyes were meant for him and him alone – there would be no one but her as he died.

She knew the exact moment when he started to realize something was wrong, his member deep inside of her and his mouth worshiping her bosom. He found he could no longer breathe, his throat closing and the air no longer passing through his windpipe. It took a minute for him to die, his hands desperately grabbing onto her as if she was his salvation. It was his last breath, grip going slack and face slacking into her breasts. With him no longer in control, his body ejected the last of his essence into her – almost a mockery of what had happened between the two and a message that even after death she would always be owned by him.

With disgust clear on her face, she pushed him off of her and slid out of the bed, mindful of the blood and semen trailing down her thighs. She once again soothed her stomach, telling the child inside that they were going to be okay in her mother tongue – that she had protected them from such a monster.

She ran, gathering up the few clothes she had as well as some supplies. She didn't dare steal too much – there was a chance they would believe he died in his sleep of heart failure and would only come after her if she stole more than what belonged to her – but in the end she decided to steal some gold coins from the man's dresser. It was the least he could have done for her.

And so the young woman ran – through the house, the town, the woods, the mountains and streams, careful never to be noticed. It was on her journey that she met a young man of two years her senior, charming and handsome, hands covered in blood. And when those crimson hands were offered to her, she reached out with her own, knowing that her child would be okay with this man of shadows.

Full circle, the young woman gives birth to the child of her former owner, tan skin no longer smiled upon the sun and hair a limp sentient of its past self. A child cries out into the open night, and the young woman smiles – her child, the one she risked everything for, is alive. Blood rapidly stains the straw underneath her, the man at her side clinging and praying to whatever god that will listen that the mother will live to see tomorrow's dusk. The mother has but a few moments, and as she gazes upon her child, she can't regret everything that has lead up to seeing this beautiful infant in her arms.

She tugs at the man's arm, a silent plead to listen to her next words. She doesn't want to leave her child, doesn't want to go beyond the grave and wait for these two for the next several decades, but she can feel her body failing her – the blood a clear sign happy endings never existed in the first place.

"Godric." A powerful name is needed to make it through this world, one that will guide him with the gods' favor.

Blonde hair, so much like hers, and blue eyes brighter than the sky meet her oceans'. That's the last thing the woman sees, her soul slipping beyond the Veil before she could say anything else.

And so Godric was born, the first of four.

* * *

Young and beautiful, a woman with auburn hair and deep green eyes looked over her garden, the sweet scents of the flora filling the air and easing her troubled mind. It had been weeks since her husband was last home, and she feared there would be many more. She knew where he had been, it was hard to ignore when he bragged about it to their guests. He was the leader of the committee for the Burnings, stalking out villages for weeks to months at a time and giving his verdict upon the souls that had been deemed dealing with the devil. There were times when the sight of her husband disgusted her, and some where she couldn't stand his presence.

It was not a known fact, even to her only family left, that she too was a witch. Her family had cast her out when it was found out that she was not her father's daughter, shaming her mother in such disgrace that she took her own life not a week after it had been found out. They had allowed the knowledge to be present in her head – who she was, what she was, why she was so different from others – but the safety of their blood and magic was denied to her. Forever shut out of her families' walls.

She could not go to her mother's family, as deeply shamed as they were. They would never accepted her – the living proof of their daughter's infidelity. It was only by pure chance that she had finished her family education before her mother was found out.

With nowhere to turn to, and too frightened of others, she turned to the people who cursed her kind. She could not present herself to another and ask if they were of magic, and so she kept everything she had been taught hidden from the townsfolk. All they had known of her was that she was a bastard child and she was sweet and kind. For a long time she lived on the outskirts of the village, only venturing further when in need of supplies.

One day a man had visited the small village, and hearing of a beautiful maiden, had decided to offer her liberty from this place. She had been hesitant, this strange man unknown to her, but she was wasting away in this poor town and had ultimately decided that she would accept his hand. He could have done a number of things to her – could have kidnapped her, sold her to the slave market, or even taken away her womanhood by force – but he didn't. So she took a chance and accepted his offer.

She once more sighed through her nose, the tea cooling in her hands. She knew what her family would think of her, a _blood traitor_ they would sneer. Gone were the days when they could freely practice their craft in open, betrayed by the ones they had once helped. Their blood was the only thing that made them different from them, magic running freely through it unlike others. To be called a _blood traitor_ was to denounce that blood, denounce magic, denounce who you were from the moment you were born.

It was betraying everything that had been given to you.

As hard as it was to swallow, she came to terms with what she was. To have this life with her husband she needed to hide that part of herself from everyone, even in the privacy of her own room. Magic was forever out of her reach, taken away by her very own heart that belonged to a man that killed her kin.

A cry rang out from inside the cottage, forcing her to set her tea down to rush to the room nearest to her. A basinet laid out before her, the child being of her father's pale skin and her mother's hair. Warm brown eyes gazed at the woman who had given birth to her, a clear sign of her father once more. Wrapped in her arms the child stilled, welcoming the warmth that it brought her.

Footsteps made their way through the cottage, and the voice of her husband husked around the corner. She felt such relief that she spun around and almost slammed the door open in her haste to welcome him. It was only stopped by the second footsteps reaching her ears, another voice whispering through her walls. A friend, a colleague of his from the hunts, she thought. She cracked open the door, just to make sure she wasn't about to interrupt a quick meeting of theirs, and quickly closed the door.

She clenched the door handle and the child within her arms, not believing that it had happened once again. An anger that was not unknown but not familiar to her rushed in her veins, followed by despair. Keeping her mind away from the door and what laid behind it, she hushed her child, feeding her as she had wished. She felt the little hands that grabbed her flesh instead of the banging of hips against one another. She listened to the suckling of her child instead of the throaty moans and groans that passed through the thin walls, and most of all she felt the dependent need her daughter held for her instead of the crippling heartbreak that threaten to engulf everything she was.

She thought of her blessing in this cruel world, her pure light in the darkness.

Helga.

And the second had arrived.

* * *

A young girl watched and studied and learned. Her mother taught her how to see what wasn't there, and her father taught her how to use her hands. They worked day and night, coming to their room exhausted every evening or daybreak. Their hands were covered with calluses, as was their feet. It didn't matter that they had magic as nothing was gained without work. Her older sister had started to lend her hand as well in the fields, and her older brother had left home long ago to travel with a master.

Sometimes, when she was alone – which was often, given that everyone else worked all day – she thought bad thoughts and wished that she could be a boy. She wanted to learn like her older brother, wanted to find someone to teach her. She wanted to grab a book and be able to tell what it said, be able to read it to her parents and let their worries ease away.

Most of all she simply wished to know.

Her mother and father, along with her sister, didn't know how to read. Didn't know how to teach her. That was okay, she decided long ago. It was okay because one day she would learn how to read and teach her parents and sibling as much as they wanted to learn. There was not a thought in her mind that would regret disobeying her lord and the law if she could simply learn all there was to the world.

And learn she did. Piecing together letter after letter, stringing them together to form the words she spoke and the meaning behind them. It took her months to learn, hours spent hiding in the corner of her master's library in hopes that no one would find her and figure out what she was attempting to do. She knew the consequences of her actions, knew them intimately, but still she pressed forwards in the hopes that her mother would finally smile and her father's eyebrows would ease into his too-old skin. She wanted her sister to fall asleep while she read to her, and she wanted her older brother to be proud of her when he came home. It was a simple wish to share knowledge and happiness with her loved ones.

One day she wasn't careful enough, so determined to finally sit down and finish the last book in the room – the final book so she could determine herself to actually be able to read. And so when a hand reached out and smacked her, she did absolutely nothing – knowing she had deserved it for not following her master's order.

If she had been found by another servant, maybe she would have continued. Maybe she would have been more careful and gone at night to widen her knowledge. However it was not just another servant that found her. Black hair filled her vision, as well as cold brown eyes she was so used to be warm when they looked at her.

Who had found her was indeed another servant, but that servant was also her mother.

And so when her mother gripped her painfully by the shoulder, and threw her in their room, telling her to wait for her father, little Rowena knew that everything had gotten so much worse.

And so the third part was played.

* * *

 _Never give your enemies an advantage, never show your emotions to anyone for they might betray you, never allow a moment of weakness to befall your composer._ Those words were constantly ringing in his head, a mantra that never ceased and an oath that meant life or death. He was held to a higher standard than his younger brothers, pushed harder and faster and expected to know and be a master in every subject known to mankind.

When had his father actually looked at him and saw his son? How long had it been since mother had fallen ill and left them behind in the mortal realm? Why had his father not remained faithful to his mother's memory and instead courted another maiden, had other kids that were and were not his siblings? When had his father stopped being his father?

Failure was never an option for him, no matter what else had to happen. It did not matter if he had to lie, to cheat, to manipulate others. If his father never learned of his heir's contempt and hatred it would be far too soon.

Lines upon lines, book after book he read, and master after master he studied under. To anyone else he would be labeled a genius, a once in a millennium protégé that would have had the world at his feet even if he didn't have it already. His father didn't see any of it – all he saw was the failure of a son that reminded him of his departed wife.

It was hard not to think of his mother when looking upon him, he knew. He shared too many similarities with her, from the long wavy black hair to the pale skin to the startling emerald eyes that haunted their faces. From his father he only inherited his strong jawline and his tall height, as well as his talent in ruling. He could understand his father, not wanting to look upon the reminder of what he had lost. Sometimes he himself couldn't look in the mirror somedays, finding instead of the man he was becoming, a young woman who had died long before her time.

Today he had swordsmanship training, the broadsword almost feeling off in his hand. He and his master knew it was not the weapon his body was made for, but neither of them dared to go against his father's order. His opponent was skilled in the weapon, being made for him in every way while he helplessly fumbled with the large blade in his hand. It didn't take long for the older man to disarm him and have him at yielding point. He could do nothing but offer his surrender.

Once everything had been clean and taken care of, his father called him away from his master. He didn't allow the dread to bumble to the surface, pushing everything that connected him to the world away and out of his system, locking it away from the horrors that were about to befall him.

He knelt before his father, chest bare, and waited for the whip to crack once more.

Salazar, High Prince of Britanniae, Heir to the Slytherin throne, was once more punished for his failure.

And so the set was completed.

* * *

Our four heroes were not forgotten in the modern day. But they were not remembered as they should have been. Their history was erased, washed away with the passage of time. That same devil twisted their personalities in everyone's eyes, deeming one unfit and the others exceptional. The world crushed four magnificent people, and wished to do it once more.

The house of bold and courage was an idea for such a young man, who hated and loved his job as a mercenary – who didn't need chivalry or honor.

To be wise and knowledgeable seemed like a goal to such a young mind, to never be in a position where people hated the idea of sharing an advantage.

To a girl who watched as her mother worked all day, and the affair her father had right in front of her mother, loyalty was something she wanted in everyone, and hard work wasn't something to slouch in.

And the one known as evil? The darkest of our houses today? Well…

That young man simply wanted the approval of a father that couldn't stand the sight of him – even if it meant going against ideal morals that had no place in the real world.

* * *

 **Before I go any deeper into this story, before I reveal who is who (because it might change on what you answer) we need to talk ships. Do you want the Hogwarts Four to be a foursome, or pairs? Depending on your answer will determine who Helga and Salazar are.**

 **Hi! I'm alive. Sorry for anyone who might have been worried about me and my surgery. It turned out fine, I didn't loose too much height (if at all) and my biggest concern is a slight limp that I have to overcome before seeing my doctor (who I was supposed to see in December, but didn't because I had a test).**

 **Guess what!? I graduated 10 days ago. I am free from school, social obligations, and can continue to live my life as a hermit... or that's what I wish could happen. I hopefully have school in the fall for animation (and maybe writing?), and I'm planning to get my license sometime this summer so I can get a job.**

 **I'm in the process of deleting every story that needs a rewrite (for the most part, the Phoenix Series is going to remain untouched) so be warned that my profile might start to look empty.**

 **I do have an incentive for you to review this time. I will be giving away a scene/spoiler/riddle/answering one question of a review of a every number of my choice. (I'm not going to tell you the number, because then you wouldn't review if you really wanted it and would just stalk the review section waiting for it to happen). This will also be my last big author's note for awhile on this story. I plan to cut of my rambling a lot and just not say anything so I don't spoil anything for you guys.**

 **Thank you for being so patient with me, and I hope you enjoyed the first rewritten chapter of my re-written stories.**


	2. Chapter I: Four Starts in an Ole World

**"Chapter I: Four Starts in an Ole World"**

Our standards of today are different than they were yesterday. As such, we cannot determine the correct course offered in the 1900s as if they were offered in the 800s. The times have changed drastically over the course of a thousand years, and with it the situations that arise.

In today's life magic is but a fairy tale that parents tell their children to fill their imagination with. There are no mermaids, no potions or dragons. In today's life the witch burnings were nothing more than a paranoid government trying to find a reason for all the illness that took over their lands. If a male had an affair with another woman that was not his wife, he was a cheater. If a man killed another, he was put on trial and held accountable for his crimes.

A thousand years ago, however, this was not the case.

Magic was in the homes of prestigious families, who knew potions and spells. Mermaids and sirens swam free in the waters, and dragons soared through the skies. The burnings which took out a great deal of their population would never happen again, magic having learned to protect her own when their enemies came to their door. If there was trouble in a marriage, it was a love potion and witchcraft that was to blame for their partner's cheating ways. If a man killed someone, he got off scotch free because that was how the world worked in his favor.

To the normal person of the times, it was a horrifying place to live. There were shadows at every turn, and creatures you could not defend yourself against. The neighbor you had known all your life could be the cause of your family's misfortune. It was a time where everyone was afraid, even the magical, for they had no idea what was around the corner.

If we are to look into the past, to see what the legends of today went through, we cannot judge them by today's standards. They are from a time of constant war and battle, of fear and anger, and betrayal from their own kind.

* * *

Mercenary was not favorable, nor was it an honorable option to turn to for a living. However it was the only one he had ever known, being passed down from his father's father, to his father, and then to him. At fifteen winters he had already killed 72 people to make a living, with more than enough gold to last his line for the next generation. He knew he could and would be cheated out of his earnings one day, and so continued with his work to make his family name into something the world would one day fear.

He of the Gryffins had no plans to produce an heir for some time, not until his thirties if he lived that long, but when he came across a young woman something in him told him not to turn away. It was by this instinct alone that allowed the young woman to carry her child to full term, and allowed what of the greatest villains and the most known heroes to be born.

At the time, though, the child was nothing more than an innocent babe that had no more potential for anything in this world than you or I.

When the woman of the sea died, and he was left with an infant only by the name of Godric, he saw no reason not to take the child into his family and train him in his ways. _Godric of the Gryffins_ , he deemed long after he buried the woman in a shallow grave.

By the time young Godric of the Gryffins was of three summers, he knew the price of taking a life. By the time he was three, he had been training for a year and knew how to use a knife better than anyone sans his master. After the death of his mother, his Master swore on her grave that her son would not face the same hardships in life as she had. Godric would never go through the same pain, never know the same agony that his mother had bore like a mantel of armor around her persona.

In the place of a slave of pleasure, her son became a servant of death and bloodshed, knowing pain as an old friend.

After eight winters had passed for him, Godric had kill ten people, indirectly and directly. He had seduced woman three times his age by his thirteenth summer and had a legacy of being ruthless of his fifteenth year. The Gryffin name had been remembered as a name to be feared in the shadows of alleyways, to be revered by admirers, and drooled over by bounty hunters.

Godric of the Gryffins did not have a close relation with his master, but it did not change their loyalty to one another. They might not have shared the same blood, but the blood that coated their hands were all but identical. The two were not Father and Son, but Wielder and Sword. They were clanmates, and that alone should have been enough to make sure their blade did not falter in the others defense.

Alas, it was not.

Young Godric of the Gryffins had kept a secret from his Master, the Master that grew jealous by the day at his success and fame. He could not remember when it started, only that he heard voices of the people around him while their lips did not move, or the words did not match with what his ears were hearing.

For a while, the young mercenary grew afraid at his ability, believing him to have caught the insanity of the time. However, as those voices whispered in his mind terrible secrets, he grew to believe them as more and more of them came true with the passage of time.

It was his sixteenth birthday when the whispers told him his Master's plan. He listened to them, the only beings in his life that could not lie, as the plan to kill him played in his mind. Master had come up with a plot to kill of his protégé, and so Godric of the Gryffins listened with a heavy heart and a weight on his shoulders while his Master planned for his death.

* * *

Helga listened through the crowd of cheering voices, over the crackling of the raging fires, for the screams of her brethren as they burned in the inferno that the common man had set upon their mortal forms.

It had become a common sight to her, having been brought to such celebrations since she was a young girl by her father. Father never noticed Mother's flinch at the people's screams, nor did he see the tightening of her eyes and the dip in her mouth whenever the Burnings were brought up in a conversation. However, Helga was a smart girl, and while she was quiet, she made up for it by watching and listening.

Little Helga knew very well her mother was a Witch, and by a product of such a union, it was very likely she shared such magic. She knew her father didn't know, because if he had she was sure her mother and very likely, she as well, would have been at one of the many Burnings. And not just a part of the audience.

Helga clung to her mother's dress, desperate to leave but knowing her father would never allow her such an occurrence. He had gotten stricter in both her and mother's movements lately, and while she didn't think he knew anything was amiss, neither of them wanted to chance such a horrible outcome.

It was late by the time they got home, the screams of either innocence people or fellow Wixs echoing in her delicate ears. The sound would haunt her, she was sure, and as she grazed at her father from her mother's shoulder, she wondered how her mother could have ever come to love such a man.

When her father had left, his servants going about their tasks as minimal as they were, she would sneak away from her mother's side and go to the farthest reach of the garden, under the fence, and walk until the sun had changed its direction to twenty-five degrees higher than when she had started out.

There was a small patch of upturned dirt, something she had done weeks ago after piecing together her mother's secret. She gathered small seeds that wouldn't be missed from the gardeners, and brought them here to be planted. Every day she was able to sneak away she would dig her hands into the dirt, and allow the warmth of her stomach to trickle down her hands and into the earth. The energy would seep into the little seeds, and push their growth just a little bit more, a little bit faster, a little bit more magical.

And when the first flower had bloomed, glowing of golden light with a song in her ear, it made her so happy that her hands could create such life that she started to cry.

Until a snap of a twig warned her of someone's presence, that is.

* * *

Rowena was banished from her family at twelve winters, seven summers after having received her punishment for overstepping her boundaries as both a servant and a woman.

The young girl had accepted her punishment with all the grace she could muster and had set herself to work with her family as she grew older. She tended the fields, washed the dishes, and mopped the floors. Rowena hadn't inquired about her brother, asked her mother to teach her the family songs, nor touch a book since that fateful day.

Young Rowena tried her best to ignore the voices in her head

She had tried to be on her best behavior, had tended to the fields with her older sister and parents, hadn't even asked about her brother in years. She tried so very hard to ignore the voices in her head, imploring her to question everything around her. It wasn't easy, but she thought she had been getting better.

Yes, there were times when she slipped up, when she was caught listening to conversations above her station and asking questions to the townspeople, but they truly were far and few in between. She hadn't even known something had been wrong with what finally broke her Master's temper with her, and by the time it had it was too late to take back the words she had said.

 _Seer_ , the word whispered behind her back. _The Gods' Devil,_ the unspoken statement had been thought. She wanted to rally back upon the cursed title they had given her, wanted to scream and curse and cry and beg for them to take the label away from her soul. There was nothing any of them could do, the Raven upon her developing chest showing proof of where the Gods had marked her as theirs.

No one could do anything for her, and as she stared upon the long dirt path in front of her, she wondered if any of this would have happened if she had just kept her mouth shut.

* * *

It had never hurt.

Not really, in any case. The slices on his back felt numb even as they were bled to make sure infection did not set in. They were covered with boiled compressed cotton and wrapped, allowing the heat to disinfect the wounds.

It was never the physical pains that hurt.

He watched his once-family through a one-sided glass all of their life. They were a perfect painting that he dared not to touch. The High Prince had learned so very long ago that he would never be a part of such a scene, where his Father would laugh and teach him about his family. His siblings would never come to him for advice, or run to so they could hide from mischief.

Even if he had wanted to, he would never be allowed to call his Father's new bride mother.

The young prince was not blind to the whispers of his family, he saw the difference of treatment between the first born and his half-siblings. He saw the affection his Father freely gave to them but had withheld from him all of his life.

The eldest knew of his brothers' resentment for him, of being the first child and proclaimed Heir-Apparent even when he was not Father's favored son. It not mattered to them that he would have given it up in a stuttering heartbeat if only Father would look and see _him_ , and not the dead woman he so resembled.

Salazar feels within his very soul, that for all that he was next-in-line for the throne, his father's Royal Consort will no doubt try to clear the way for her children.

The most heartbreaking is not knowing if his father would even investigate his death, or if he had been a part of such a motive.

Because he knew, as Salazar stood in the middle of his chamber, that there was more than just him within the four walls that separated him from the world.

* * *

What happened next to our four heroes is not for the faint of heart.

If you cannot bear to witness their pain and betrayal, if you dare not grasp the path that laid itself out before them, it is best to turn back now. Their beginnings were not pleasant, nor is their journey to the profile of today's time any better.

Their path is one riffled with strife and hardship, with dragon's rage and true love's tears. They came together in the depths of despair and the void, knowing that each was a breath away from the veil. It is stripped of love and compassion, and they have never known the hand of help.

This story will go on, it will happen, has happened, already. There is nothing anyone can do for our young protagonists, and it all starts here.

* * *

Godric of the Gryffins first true brush with death was when he was almost sixteen summers old. His master, his _father_ , attempted to kill him during the moonless night. Although Godric had known it was coming, it didn't stop his heartbreak nor the tears that ran down his face.

His Master didn't succeed. Godric had been taught to kill and hide and lie since he came out of his mother's womb and not even a loved one trying to take his head could make him forget the lessons that had cared their way into his bones.

It doesn't mean it was an easy fight. Far from it. While Godric's Master had the resolve to kill the boy he had raised from his mother's dead corpse, the boy battled with himself as to his next course of action. This man, no matter the differences they each carried, had given him a legacy to carry. Had given him the tools to get his next meal and trained him for whatever the world would one day throw at him.

Godric of the Gryffins was a boy, not yet a man, who had to make a choice.

 _Will he let his Master kill him, or will he kill his Master?_

The battle raged on for what could have been a new wind breezing through, or it could have been a tree being cut down. Godric loses sense of time, loses track of the sun and the moon and the stars themselves.

It is only Godric, his blade, and his Master.

One day he will look back on this moment and know what happened, will realize his decision in that moment. In the far distant future Godric will be thankful for his younger self.

That day is not today, and all Godric feels is confusion and grief.

A crackle of lightning climbs his sword, so green that emeralds could never compare to the shade, and strikes his Master.

There is not even time for him to cry out.

* * *

 _This is the first time the curse, known in modern times as the_ Killing Curse, _has ever been cast._

* * *

It is one of her father's cohorts that find her. It is them that figure it out.

Helga will never be able to describe the fear and hatred that runs through her veins in that moment. Will never be able to have anyone comprehend the furry that overtook her and the curses that she had spit out of her mouth.

The forest is angry as well, teaming with life that the mortals do not understand and cannot hear.

They drag her to the burnings, the cross which has become her kind's damnation. Her mother is screaming, crying, begging for her husband to do _something,_ anything! Her father only watches on, his face carved from stone. There is not a sight of compassion in the lines of his mouth, the tightening of his eyes, all it says to her is _this is what you deserve for consorting with the devil._

Helga has never known hatred in her life. She feels it all too readily for the man who sired her.

The Witch Hunters tie her to the cross and the towns' people crowd around her. They all have pitch forks or torches, all ready to burn a girl of fourteen winters. Her mother is still screaming, held back by her husband and his friends. Her voice will go hoarse before her daughter is burned to crisps.

The young noble's daughter is calm. Or maybe she is frightened. Helga has no idea what to feel. There are too many words and yet not enough, and no time to figure it out. She does not wish to burn on a pyre, neither does she want to go back to lying about who and what she is.

Helga, more than anything, wants to be _free._

As the flames lick at her heels, as it dances at the edges of her dress, singes the ends of her red hair. With her mother's screams in her ear and her own tears gathering at the edges of her eyes.

As Helga knows Death's door, she screams.

The young witch screams to the forest around her, to the forest that she has played in and nurtured since she was young. She screams to the heavens and to the depths of the seas, and _wishes_ for the first time in her life.

Burning flames turn outwards, engulfing the audience before they can escape. Instead of a young woman's dying embers, an inferno covets a village's livestock and everything that built it.

Only the daughters of scarlet remain.

* * *

 _Helga has no idea what effect this will have in the future. She has no idea that at her pyre magic fought back for the first time in its existence. All for the sake of a young girl who stared at the earth and thought '_ I will help. _'_

* * *

Rowena's brother finds her after it is all over.

He finds her with cuts and bruises, clothes torn and hair mangled. He finds her with blood seeping through her dress and an Unkindness watching over her. Their symbol is carved onto her flesh, seeped into her soul, and claws dug so deep that it impossible to remove. He finds her with glazing eyes that see nothing and everything, that are both empty and full of life.

He finds her on the brink of death and at the edge of despair. In the throes of madness and in the void of everything. He is not sure if there is anything left of his sister, but he must try to bring her back.

The apprentice of Eagleclaw works tireless throughout the night. He heals his sister's wounds. He gets potions and spells from his riddler. He cooks and cleans and reads and when all else fails, not even his sister is well enough to see him cry.

For all of his genius, Merlin has no idea how to heal the joy of his life.

* * *

 _Rowena has no idea what she_ Sees _, but it will help her all the same._

* * *

Salazar's first attempt of his life is poison. The second is an attempt in practice. The third is a well-placed jinx. The fourth a falling statue. The fifth is a cursed object.

He still doesn't know if only his father's wife is behind it.

The prince has no allies in the palace. His mentor had an urgent summons from his travelling apprentice and felt it urgent enough to leave his older student behind. His mentor only has an inkling of what goes on in the palace, and much as he wishes to interfere, he cannot. He can only be a safe haven when the waters are calm.

Salazar doesn't know how he will see his twentieth winter. He does not know if he wants to.

For all of his charm and talent, his extended family has never taken a shine to him. Or maybe it is _because_ of his charisma and skill that they don't. Salazar doesn't know, and he never will. All he knows is that the palace he once called home has been drained of warmth and the silence echoes back into his being.

He does not know when this loving abode became a casket. He does not know when it became _his_ casket.

Salazar wished for his own family even as the one he was birthed into tried to murder him.

* * *

 _The dear snake prince would have no idea that his wish set everything into motion._

* * *

 ***Gasps* I updated something.**

 **...Sorry.**


End file.
